“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned" Marcel whispered, the familiar words, anticipating the comfort of absolution. In this dark cubicle he was completely himself, and. everything was all right. "It's been one week since my last confession."
"Have you any sins to confess, my son?"
Brother Eric. He was always understanding.
"Yes, Father" Marcel murmured. “ I have… felt anger. Great anger."
"Feeling anger in itself is not a sin, Marcel," Brother Eric said. "It is only when you enjoy the feeling of anger or act upon it?
"I fear… were I to confront this anger, it could lead to… violence." There, it was out.
"Violence?"
Marcel took a deep breath. "I have been contacted by former… associates. I've tried to leave these people behind, Father. I've tried to escape them. I've come here These people do not acknowledge the Lord our God. They play with… fate. They have unholy power." Marcel felt his throat close. He shut his eyes, remembering that power, how it had flowed from his hands, how beautiful the world seemed when he held it.
"Explain about the violence, son," said Brother Eric.
"If I see them or one in particular-I'm afraid I will do him harm." A cold sweat broke out on Marcel's fore' head. Yes, God was listening-but He might not be the only one. What a risk he was taking,… He looked around himself, contained in this dark cubicle.
"Do him harm out of anger?"
"Yes. said Marcel. "For trying to make me renounce what is good."
"Does he so threaten you, lad, that in order to protect yourself, you'd destroy him?"
"Yes," Marcel whispered.
"You don't see another path, Marcel?"
"I can never see him again," Marcel offered. "I can refuse to go to him, to help him."
"He's asked for your help?"
"Not yet. But I think he might. He's asked to see me."
"Perhaps he's changed his ways?" suggested Brother Eric.
"No," Marcel said with certainty.
"Then what does he want from you?"
"My… power." The words were so faint as to barely penetrate the wooden piercework screen.
"No one can take your power from you, Marcel."
Instantly Marcel saw that this was pointless, that Brother Eric could never understand, that there was no salvation for him here. He almost wept. He needed a strong hand to hold his, to say, We will not let you go. But the Church was all about free will. How to explain that sometimes, his will was not truly his own?
Liar.
His conscience was a small, cold voice, mocking him inside his head. Your will is your own. You like the power, Marcel You like wielding it You love feeling life, energy, pure force flowing from you, from your hands. You like what you can do with it. You like what you can do to others.
'No! No, I don't! You're lying," Marcel cried, covering his face with his hands.
"Marceir. “
It doesnt have to he had, Marcel, said his conscience. Remember, "There is nothing either good or had, hut thinking makes H so." You can use your power for good. You can con' vince the others. They want to he good anyway. It's only Daedalus-Daedalus and Jules and Axelle. Mayhe Manon. Mayhe Richard. But the others, they're for good. They follow the Bonne Magie. You can too. Your power could elevate them to goodness.
"No, no" Marcel sobbed as the velvet curtain opened and Brother Eric touched his shoulder. “'I cant go back."
"Marcel, we must all face our demons," Brother Eric said softly, "Now come, rest. You've been working too hard, I'll have Brother Simon bring you some soup."
Marcel let himself be led out of the chapel, its stones standing watch over God's disciples since 1348, But Marcel knew they could no longer protect him. It was only a matter of time. Every step he took was a step closer to his own personal hell, and whatever awaited him in New Orleans.